


Dredging

by imperfectkreis



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Anal Fingering, Androids, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-05-13 23:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5720410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is used to building things, fitting pieces together in his brain, not with his hands. </p><p>An engineer Sole Survivor tries to care for Valentine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For three days the rain doesn't stop. Heavy, bubbling currents of radiation, falling from the sky. They take doses of rad-x every six hours to keep from getting sick. Otherwise, they stay inside, watch the water pool in depressions in the pavement.

Emmanuel used to live here, before the bombs fell. Now, he supposes, he doesn't live anywhere. But Sanctuary still welcomes him back.

When the generator breaks down, Emmanuel pulls on his coat, flipping up his hood to keep the rain out of his eyes. Preston says he doesn't have to go, they can do without the power until the rain stops. Emmanuel is worried that the radstag steaks will spoil. They haven't worked this hard to give up such small comforts as food that isn't rotten.

He looks at the wall to the side of Preston’s neck, instead of in his eyes, says he’ll be fine.

The rain burns at his hands as he works the generator. There’s a gap in the casing and with the endless rain it's become waterlogged, so much so that the rotor can’t turn freely. He needs to pull the generator and bring it inside to try and fix. That gap needs to be patched. Out here, he’ll only make the problem worse.

Rushing inside the garage, he gathers the things he’ll need: wrench, crowbar, rags, and oil. He’ll have to unscrew the base plate, that they've anchored to the concrete, pry it up, drag it inside. That’ll take time, but the rain shows no sign of stopping. He’ll take his radaway once the work is done. 

The bolts have to be loosened first. He twists them loose one by one, spinning them more quickly with his fingers once the wrench softens them. He pockets the bolts before trying to lift the generator. He gets the baseplate loose, but the generator is too heavy for him to manage on his own. Sturges helped him stick it here in the first place. He doesn’t dare ask for help under these conditions, he was the one hard-headed enough to insist working on it now. 

Because he can’t lift it up, Emmanuel has to drag the generator the ten or so feet to get it under the awning of the garage. It scrapes up the base terribly, but he gets it there.

Wind whips the rain into the un-walled garage. Emmanuel checks his geiger counter. He’s still alright, and he isn’t taking rads as fast as he was when the rain came down on his head. Grabbing some ruined sheets and curtain remnants, stuff they used to pay too many worthless dollars for before the war, he builds a fort of cloth around the generator, hanging them from the ceiling struts. With that, his counter drops to one tic/sec. Reasonable enough. Putting down his tools, he sits cross legged on the concrete floor, ready to get to work.

\--

“You could have waited for me to get here,” Nick lifts up one sheet of Emmanuel’s makeshift shelter. He’s been inside for twenty minutes, taking the generator apart. “Then you wouldn’t have to go out in the rain.”

Emmanuel turns his dark eyes to the synth’s glowing ones, “I didn’t know you were on your way.” He looks back at the key in his hands. It’s showing more wear than it should have. He tries to remember what it looked like before he installed it.

“How are your rads looking?” Valentine asks, squatting down next to him. 

Nick’s chassis gives off too much heat. Something inside him is working too hard to keep him in motion. The tips of Emmanuel’s ears get warm. He doesn’t know how to ask if he should take a look. He’s an engineer, not a doctor with a bedside manner. Before waking up two-hundred and ten years in the future, he mostly dealt with paper and ink and concepts. Let others do his building. But everything he’s tried since then, using his hands, has worked. The generators, the turrets, the strings of lights they run along the walls. No one is more surprised than him that he can actually make the pictures in his head come to life with his own gestures. It almost seems like magic.

So he wonders what it would be like to touch Nick. 

“Okay, I’m due for another rad-x in eighteen minutes.”

“Set an alarm?”

“Already done,” his fingers are coated in grease, making them look shiny. 

Nick grunts, “wanting for company?”

Emmanuel nods, careful not to take his eyes off of what his hands are doing, fitting the washers back in place, then the screw that matches.

Nick takes off his soaked coat, tossing it outside where it will only get wetter. But it’s of little use to him now. He rolls up his shirtsleeves, leaving his metal bones bare on his right arm. The left is deeply stained, tobacco and dirt and disrepair. Emmanuel could probably do something about that too.

But it seems like such an invasion. Such a misstep to even ask. If Nick were a human, how would he make his affections known? “Can I make you a meal?” “Can I walk you home?” “Can I press my lips against yours because I woke up from the most terrible nightmare and now I’m not sure anything is real?”

But Nick’s made of polymer and steel. And plays with his cigarette pack while Emmanuel works. He knows better than to light it in the narrow space between the stained curtains.

\--

Emmanuel spends the next day hooked to an IV of radaway, waiting as the the damage to his cells repairs, as he's flushed clean of errors in his DNA. Nick comes to see him at lunch time, bringing a slab of radstag that Jun cooked just for him. Deserves it, since he saved the generator.

“You should work on your self-preservation instinct,” Nick laughs as he hands over the plate. Curie had to tape him into the IV. As he slept, Emmanuel tried to pull out the needle. The white tape looks too stark against his skin, too sterile.

It's cumbersome to cut the meat with one hand hooked to the bag, but he manages, shoving bits of gamey flesh into his mouth. He hasn't been hungry since he went into the rain. “You're one to talk,” he says with his mouth full.

“After that, work on your manners.” Nick sits on the side of his cot, waiting for Emmanuel to finish. 

“We needed the generator.”

Nick shakes his head, “Your pride did, maybe.” He rests his left hand over Emmanuel’s thigh. There are two layers of blankets and Emmanuel’s slacks between them, but as far as Emmanuel’s concerned? It's still electric.

Maybe his colleagues were right.

Maybe he's a fetishist.

“Nick, do you think I'm...odd?”

Nick lights his cigarette, and in doing so moves his hand. A lead weight lifted from Emmanuel’s organic body. “Don't think you can survive what you've been through, and not be odd.”

Emmanuel ghosts his fingers over the depressions in the blankets left by Nick’s.

\--

“I think I can help,” Emmanuel blurts, along the road to Goodneighbor.

Nick turns just slightly, but keeps walking. There's no need to stop.

“Your hand,” he starts, “it's broken. I can fix it.”

Nick flexes his right, making the spidery, exposed frame dance and jitter. “I've always sort of liked it. Gives me character.”

“No, not that one,” his eyes track each joint on the right hand. They all slide gracefully, just enough friction to keep from splaying apart, not so much that they grind. Another couple years and the silicone pads in between, the false-cartilage, should be replaced. But right now? Nick has all the dexterity he needs. “Your left.”

“But that's the pretty one.” Nick drops his right hand to look at the stained palm of his left, the silver-gray turned brown in wide patches. “At least, I always thought so.”

Emmanuel stops walking, tugging Nick by his sleeve so he’ll halt too. “Try doing the same thing you were doing with your other hand.”

Nick starts moving his fingers, the pinky catches, won't bend as far towards the palm. It simply stops in its tracks. Emmanuel can see it, through Nick’s skin, that something is wrong with the first joint, and it's causing strain all the way down the side of his hand.

“See!” Emmanuel exclaims.

“I suppose so. But I've only got so much ‘skin’ to go around. Suppose I like to keep what I've still got?”

“You won't lose any, I promise,” Emmanuel is certain he can do this. He holds Nick’s hand between both of his. “Let me try?”

Let me care for you.

“Okay,” Nick smiles, “Sure.”

\--

It's not until they're back to Diamond City at the Agency that Emmanuel has the space and tools to try fixing Nick’s hand. He perches himself on the edge of Nick’s desk, holding out his own hand, “Give me yours.”

Nick shrugs out of his coat first, tossing it on a chair and rolling up his sleeve before holding out his hand. His forearm isn't nearly as discolored, still mostly smooth and gray.

Emmanuel wraps his hand with Nicks’s bending his fingers forward and trying to feel exactly where the point of friction is. He swallows hard, trying to still his own racing heart, before flexing again. “Okay, I think I've got this now.”

The scalpel isn't his tool of choice, but it lets him make the incision along the side of Nick’s hand. There's no blood to worry about, but Emmanuel has to press harder than he expected to open the casing. But it feels so much like calloused skin? “I'm not hurting you, am I?” he asks, the false-flesh finally coming apart.

“Little late to be asking that question, El.” 

Emmanuel looks up, he hadn't thought. “Sorry…”

Nick laughs, “I was kidding. I'm fine.”

Frowning, Emmanuel goes back to work, this time with the needlenose pliers. It would be better if he had something with a finer tip, but he manages to wedge them in, grabbing at the bit of frame that has slipped from the cupped joint, he tries to wedge it back in place.

“Stop holding your breath,” Nick coaxes, “I don't need you passing out on me.”

With the reminder, Emmanuel breathes, “oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Nick’s still in good humor, but he won't be if Emmanuel messes up.

Coating a paint brush with oil, Emmanuel slicks the inside of Nick’s hand, trying to get it to better slide together. He picks up the pliers again. This time, with a quick tug, the metal settles back in place. He smiles at it work. “Flex now?”

Nick tries moving his hand again, “Whaddaya know? You did it.”

“I still need to glue you back together,” he wipes his now-sweaty hands against his slacks. Taking up a second paintbrush, he seals the incision with wonderglue, holding Nick’s hand together until the adhesive sets.

“You're cute, when you're focused,” Nick says. 

“Oh, be quiet,” Emmanuel huffs. “Now you're just making fun of me.” He slides back off the desk, his boots planting on the floor.

Nick drops his metal hand to Emmanuel’s hip, holding with only a hint of pressure seeping through the fabric of his tee. “Thank you, I mean it.”

“You're welcome,” he holds Nick’s gaze, it's easier to stomach than eyes of brown or blue. He's comforted by the glow.

Rubbing his thumb against Emmanuel’s hip, Nick fills the silence with simple praise. “You're good at what you do.”

Emmanuel closes his eyes, touches his lips to Nick’s. They're softer than his own and taste like ash. They give less under pressure than human tissue should. Putting his hands to Nick’s chest, there’s no heartbeat there, no fluttering of lungs. Just a dull vibration, the hum of his cooling system, transferring liquid through rubber arteries.

“Oh,” but Emmanuel’s lungs do skip their breaths as he responds, “oh. I'm odd.”

Nick laughs, folding both his arms around to Emmanuel’s back, pulling him forward until his chin rests against Nick’s shoulder. “Guess I am too, El.”


	2. Chapter 2

Emmanuel stands out behind the Gibsons’ old home, trying to aim his shots at the line of tin cans MacCready set up as targets. He closes one eye, then opens it, pulling sharply on the trigger. He misses. No choice but to try again.

MacCready made him promise to at least practice. Make an effort. He’d tried to explain that some two-hundred and fifteen years ago he'd cleared basic, just like all the other military personnel. Left out the part where he hasn't fired a gun since. MacCready probably already knows that much.

The Gibsons were kind enough to him. More fond of his sister. Easy to like a woman with a baby on her hip and a smile on her face. One who was charming, the ideal mother in less than ideal times.

Now Emmanuel fires rounds at the skeleton of their home. The bullets that miss, all of them, end up lodged in the walls, breaking up what little is left of the Gibsons’ dream. Nice house. Nice car. Quiet life. 

What's left of Adaliz is decaying below the hill.

Emmanuel fires again, he almost makes contact this time. Almost.

\--

Nick asks him what he's thinking, running his metal fingers down the line of Emmanuel’s spine. The thin, white tee he wears isn't thick enough to keep out the texture of Nick’s digits raking down each vertebra. Emmanuel thinks of other places he'd like those hands to touch him. Only he's not sure how to ask. Even now. Feels obscene.

They stand, chest to chest, in the dimly lit hallway of Emmanuel’s home. What used to be Emmanuel’s home. He's strung lights across the settlement, powered by humming generators just outside. He cares for them, the first of his mechanical children, who built in this future he almost-hates.

Except for the way Nick’s body overheats next to his. Can't hate that. Nick’s yellow eyes cast new shadows across his face, ones that couldn't exist before.

“Doesn't matter what I'm thinking about,” Emmanuel almost forgets he's expected to reply. He digs his fingers into Nick’s arms, where his biceps would be, but Nick has only wires and tubing. He can feel them sliding beneath Nick’s casing. 

“Hey,” Nick tilts Emmanuel’s chin up with his other hand, bringing their eyes to meet again. “Of course it matters. You're going to let it eat you up inside. You always do.” Nick waits. When Emmanuel says nothing, Nick says, “Breathe.”

Emmanuel swallows down a mouthful of air. When he does, Nick laughs, knowing he was right. Emmanuel forgot.

“So, tell me,” his soft hand traces from Emmanuel’s chin, across his cheeks, neck, to his nape. Fingers splaying in his hair, keeping his head in place. He relaxes into the pressure of Nick’s hand at the back of his head, letting his tension fizzle. 

“Come to bed with me?” Emmanuel keeps his eyes open as he asks. Watches for Nick’s reaction. His responses always go through his personality processor first, making wire-muscles twist and bend, if they're still intact. So Emmanuel isn't so surprised when the corner of Nick’s mouth twitches upwards in response.

His metal fingers curl around the fabric of Emmanuel's tee, rucking it up at the small of his back, exposing skin to air. “What is it you're suggesting? Because I'd like for it to be perfectly clear, what it is we’ll be doing, if we go to bed.”

Emmanuel comes up to kiss him, pressing his dry lips to Nick’s. The inside of Nick’s mouth is too hot, without moisture, like a desert Emmanuel would be happy enough to disintegrate inside. Swallowed up by waves of sand, baked by the sun. He drops his hands to Nick’s belt, tugging at the leather. Their hips bump together. 

“I'd like for you to touch me? To touch you in return?” Emmanuel feels the heat rise to his cheeks. He wishes he could draw out what he wants. Neat little diagrams on lined paper, showing how he works, fits together. Precise lines and angles of his desire. Because it's all so clearly rendered in Emmanuel’s mind. But he can't translate it quite into words. “Please,” he breathes. It will have to do.

Nick’s eyes flash down the hallway, towards Emmanuel’s door. It's the same room he slept in before the sleep. Different door. Sturges built the door for him, hung it on its hinges. Turning back to Emmanuel, Nick says, “Let’s go,” smiling.

Emmanuel's chest tightens. Holding onto Nick's hand, he leads them down the hall. He pushes open the door. His single bed is left unmade from this morning, books stacked on the night table. He never gets through more than a few pages before stopping, his eyes tired from the day.

Though they're alone in the house, Nick clicks the door shut behind them. He shucks off his trench coat, hanging it over Emmanuel’s desk chair. His hands go to his tie.

“Let me,” Emmanuel reaches forward, loosening the knot at Nick’s neck. There's dirt and grease under his too-long nails. Curie has convinced him to stop biting them, but now he doesn't know what to do about them. As he pulls away Nick’s tie, he lets his fingers brush against Nick’s neck, dipping under his collar, inside the exposed cavity. He can feel the movement of coolant pulse through the rubber tubes. The slick of insulated wires pressed against the thicker column.

Nick's eyes bear down on him, through him, still focused when Emmanuel looks back up, the tie in one hand. “Now what about you?” Nick’s fingers brush against Emmanuel's stomach in alternating textures, tugging at his hem.

Raising his arms over his head, Emmanuel waits for Nick to pull off his shirt. Nick should know well enough what to expect, thin arms, flat stomach, a bit more muscle definition than when Emmanuel first woke up, but not much. He's gone from sitting in front of a terminal to running across the Wastes, but he'll never be bulky.

Nick dips down to kiss him, slipping his hands back into Emmanuel’s waistband, scratching against the surface of his skin. Emmanuel feels himself swell in response, pressing into Nick’s leg. He parts the buttons to Nick’s dress shirt one by one, unwrapping him with the slide of faux pearl against cotton-substitute. Most everything made of the real thing decayed long ago. What remains is only blends. 

Stripping the shirt from Nick’s shoulders, Emmanuel then presses his palms flat against Nick’s chest, soaking in the heat of malfunction. The constant fever that Nick can't help but run. Sometimes Emmanuel has the hubris to think he can fix that too. Claw around inside the cave of Nick’s thorax and rearrange his decaying components until they work correctly.

Nick pushes them both towards the bed, until the backs of Emmanuel’s knees hit the mattress, until he folds into the sheets. He pulls Nick down with him, splaying his legs open so Nick will fit between. Grinding upward, he gasps at the friction of his own making. “Nick, please?”

“Please, what?” Nick smiles, “gotta be more specific, El.”

“Aren't you supposed to be good at reading clues?” he pounds his fist lightly against Nick’s shoulder, though he doubts he could hurt Nick in any case.

“That's what I've been told.” Nick supports himself on one arm, thrusting down with his hips against Emmanuel until his mouth opens again with a groan.

“Touch me, please,” he curls both his hands into Nick’s shoulders, “Show me where to touch you.”

They shift their weights around until they're free of their slacks, fabric pooled together on the floor. The flat of Nick’s groin slides against Emmanuel’s erection. Nick shifts again, and this time Emmanuel is sure it was on purpose.

“Here,” Nick grabs one of Emmanuel’s hands, placing it onto his hip, just below where there is a rupture in the casing. “Just hold on to me for now.”

Emmanuel does the same to Nick’s other side, letting his fingers grow warm and sweaty.

Wrapping the soft hand around Emmanuel’s erection, Nick pumps him slowly, increasing the friction until Emmanuel groans, deeper than the usual timbre of his voice. He rolls his hips upward, to try and meet Nick's hand, only to be pushed back down.

“Be patient, I've waited a long time for this,” Nick cautions.

That had never occurred to Emmanuel, that his desires could be reciprocated with such strength. That Nick may want him, wait for him, need him more than simply the responsibly of pleasing someone for whom he has developed affection.

“Nick,” he slices his nails into the casing at metal hips.

And Nick’s hips follow, thrusting against Emmauel’s ass as he lifts his legs to Nick’s shoulders, as if Nick has a cock inside him. Repeating motions his brain knows, that his body animates. The sound is there, the slap of skin on skin, the roll of Nick’s hand over Emmanuel’s erection. His hands move from hips to chest, and he can't help but feel, to grip at Nick’s insides’ on the other side of his fractured whole.

“Can you feel me?” Emmanuel asks.

“Yeah, El, I can.” His eyes dim. “You feel so good.”

Emmanuel whines as he comes, his abdomen raked raw with sensation, curling and uncurling as he spurts against Nick’s chest. He doesn't remember closing his eyes, but he must've, because when he opens them, Nick is bright again. 

His hands shake at Nick’s chest, matching the resonance of his routine functioning. 

\--

In the morning, he's too hot. Baked by Nick’s form, set on standby. Emmanuel watches Nick's still face for a long time, his eyes are open, but dark. Pulling his hand out from under the sheet, he holds his palm in front of Nick’s mouth. He should not be surprised when he feels no breath fall against it.

It should be unnerving. It’s been so long since he's shared a bed with anyone. And this body, Nick's body, lays like a corpse. Still, quiet, heavy. He doesn't move his hand away, staring at Nick’s unmoving face.

But then, there's a pressure against his palm. Nick kisses his hand until Emmanuel recoils. “You knew I was watching you?”

Nick's eyes flicker on. The right takes longer to reach full brightness. “Of course.” He pulls Emmanuel closer, their chests bumping together. “I know you like what you see, too.”


	3. Chapter 3

Piper tells him, he should get out more.

What she means, is everyone is counting on him.

Because Emmanuel woke up from a two-hundred-ten year sleep without so much as a scratch. He clawed his way out of the vault upon the hill, strapped a pipboy to his wrist, and people started calling him ‘hero.’

He doesn’t like it, not one bit, this mantle that doesn’t fit. He’s never been anything more than a set of fingers behind a terminal keyboard, punching out diagrams and numbers. When asked to run, he gets winded. When asked to shoot, he misses.

Piper tells him none of that matters. She leans against her desk, arms folded over her chest. Her hat sitting on top of a stack of papers, her hair is wild around her shoulders. 

It doesn’t matter one bit that Emmanuel is made from mostly bones and creeping fear. She says she can feel the tendrils of it around her throat even now. He tries to look her in the eye. But she says it’s okay that he can’t do that either. 

“None of us are perfect,” she chews on the end of her pen. Nat is trying to get her to stop smoking. It’ll never work, though. She’s been addicted since she was twelve. “Least of all you.”

“Thank you, for the vote of confidence.” Emmanuel keeps his hands stuffed in the front pockets of his slacks. His belt is already notched as tight as it will go, holding his pants to his hips. 

Tossing aside her pen, Piper reaches for her cigarette pack instead. She inhales deeply, letting the smoke fill her mouth, come back out through her nostrils. “You’re a symbol, someone other people can rally around. And that’s fucking important.” She takes a bit of ash off her tongue, flicking it to the floor. 

“So I’m an empty banner for others to wave?” He hopes his voice sounds light, teasing, but he’s not sure it does, from the way Piper’s lips turn down at the corners. 

“Something like that,” she snuffs out her cigarette. “Point is, Blue, you’ve come so far already. It would be a waste to give up.”

Emmanuel doesn’t correct her, but giving up was never on his list of things to accomplish.

\--

The marketplace is always too crowded, too loud. Sometimes he likes it, sometimes he doesn’t. Mostly, it’s just the heavy heartbeat of Diamond City. Nothing that Emmanuel can do will stop it from ticking.

Nick’s door is open. Always is. In the literal sense as well. 

He’s seated at his desk, legs thrown up, crossed at the ankles. There are two coffee cups perched precariously close to his feet. One filled with pencils, pens, and empty lighters. The other is stained brown at the bottom from Emmanuel’s coffee. He’s become accustomed to objects never being clean. Every time he kisses Nick, he tastes of ash and oil. Terrible on his tongue. But Emmanuel doesn’t so much as flinch. 

“El, thought you’d be with Piper a while longer.” He tosses the clipboard in his hand back onto the desk. Leaning over, he taps off his ash in the ceramic dish at the edge of his desk.

Emmanuel shrugs, running his fingers over the wooden client’s chair across the desk from Nick. He threads his fingers through the bars, jamming them up to the webbing between his digits. “Do you think I can do it? That I can find Shaun?”

Nick pulls his feet from the desk, planting them flat on the floor and leaning forward. Emmanuel half expects him to order him to take a seat, but he doesn’t. His eyes are so bright. Emmanuel can’t help but stare. 

“Tell me, El, why is saving Shaun so important to you?”

Emmanuel raps his knuckles against the wood again. “My sister...she would have done anything for him. He’s her son...I should…”

“Are you doing this for your sister, then?”

Shaking his head, Emmanuel admits, “No.”

“So, forget for a second why Shaun is important. Focus on the saving part. Because, if you ask me, those are two different things.”

“He’s...so small. And helpless. And no one else cares. So I have to.”

Nick takes another long drag before responding. “I’m not here to psychoanalyze you, El. That hardly seems appropriate, given the circumstances.” He pushes his shirt sleeves up. Without any definition to his forearms, they're always sliding down. “And I'm not going to tell you to give up either. You have to make the choice. I just don't want to see you get hurt. Because there's a lot of good you can do in this world. And not all of it involves your nephew.”

Well after midnight, and several cups of coffee more, bitter against his tongue, the dregs sticking between his teeth, Emmanuel crawls into Nick’s bed. He waits with his eyes open for Nick to come to bed too. To wrap his soft hand around Emmanuel’s hard cock, and stroke him until he's weak and satiated. He pants out, “Harder, please,” as Nick scratches his metal fingers along his back. He can see the darkened, redded streaks, without ever really seeing them. When he wakes in the morning, there are speckles of his blood against the sheets.

\--

MacCready walks with him along the water. Emmanuel talks very little. MacCready talks a great deal. About a girl he once knew. Well, woman, if she's still alive. She wore a leather coat and leather boots and only ever called MacCready ass-sorry. Sorry, he shouldn't repeat. But she came up out of a vault too. And changed the Capital for the better, no matter what her faults.

“Everyone seems invested in my wellbeing,” Emmanuel observes. “Did you compare notes?” It's meant as a joke. He's not sure MacCready gets it.

Shaking his head, MacCready admits, “Something like that. You know,” he cups his hand to light his cigarette against the breeze. “Curie is really worried you know? And so is Valentine. And Piper.”

“And you?” Emmanuel asks.

MacCready shrugs his shoulders. “I'm not one for forcing expectations on other people. I just want you to learn to shoot properly. Would save me a lot of worry. Knowing you can defend yourself.”

Emmanuel knows MacCready’s eyes are blue. But he wouldn't be able to say exactly what hue. If they match the sky or not. He hasn't paid much attention. 

They sit together on the banks of the Charles, their boots on dry land, and watch garbage float down the river.

\--

Nick kisses along his spine, every dry touch of his peeling lips an apology for the hash marks his hands have left behind.

Emmanuel lays flat on his stomach on Nick’s bed. He arches his spine at every creep of contact. Straining to feel more pressure against the knobs of his vertebrae. But Nick is too gentle now. Too afraid of slicing him to ribbons.

But this is nice too. Nick with his thighs to the outside of Emmanuel’s hips, squeezing him in, pinning him down. He likes the weight of Nick against his back, the heavy heat of his chassis. Patches of cool where there is no casing left, just components open to air.

“Have you had many lovers, Nick?” he keeps jealousy from blooming in his voice.

“Enough.” Nick curls his hands over Emmanuel’s shoulders, holding him in place. “Should I ask the same of you?”

Emmanuel buries his face flat in the pillow at first, blocking out the light. It smells of oil and sweat. It smells like both of them mixed together. Coming back up for air, his chin pokes into the mattress with each word. “Enough.” Nick knowing more than that would only fuel his sickly-sweet protectiveness. Surely. That Emmanuel can't remember the names attached to any of the cocks he's sucked. Can’t place faces with the hands that held him down. He was always already too gone to remember. Letting touches and bites blur together.

“Why don't we stop talking about other people then? Because while I'm sure they're all dead, I don't particularly like thinking about anyone else seeing you like this.”

Emmanuel agrees, humming against the sheets. Nick shifts back, until he can spread Emmanuel’s legs apart. Grabbing him by the hips, Nick brings him up on all fours. Emmanuel drops his head between his hands, waiting for Nick to take him. Slicked fingers press into him, stretching and curling and impossibly warm. He wishes he has the pillow to muffle what noise he does make. The panting breaths as Nick brushes against his nerves, flaying him with a touch of his fingers.

Dropping his shoulders to the mattress, Emmanuel struggles to keep his balance as Nick works him harder, fingers buried inside. With his metal hand, he slices against Emmanuel’s abdomen, this time all to careful as to not split skin.

“Touch yourself, El.” Nick encourages. Nick’s groin presses against the heel of his hand, using his hips to fuck his fingers deeper into Emmanuel. “You're so hard. Just, touch yourself.”

Emmanuel bites the inside of his cheek, not willing yet to concede. He wants to bark, ‘You do it.’ But Nick is still too cautious. Too afraid that it will hurt. Grabbing at Nick’s metal wrist, he pulls Nick’s hand away from his abdomen, pressing it over his cock instead. He forces Nick’s grip closed, curling his fingers around Nick’s, shutting his cock in the cage of Nick’s hand.

“Fuck,” Nick hisses, like he can feel it too, how Emmanuel swells in his grip. But he can't feel it. Emmanuel has been mapping every point along Nick’s body, every scrap and what sensation it can register. So anything about this that makes Nick whine, that's his brain at work, not his flesh. 

Pushing back up onto his hands, Emmanuel cranes his neck to the side, trying to look back at Nick. He manages it, just enough, raking his brown eyes against the yellow of Nick’s, and when he does, Nick slams his hips forward, toppling them both over. 

Another relic from another body.

He swallows up the twinge of pain, because if he doesn't, Nick will stop. And he's so, so close. With Nick’s body heavy on top of his, fingers wet inside him, the sharpness of steel joints against his cock. Nick doesn't even have to move his hand. It closes, too much and too fast and Emmanuel spasms beneath him, soaking the sheets with his cum. 

Above him, Nick breathes heavy, like he's a real smoker after a marathon and a half. But neither of those things are true. But it's sort of beautiful, where the construction sparks against the confines of their lived existence. Truly, Emmanuel couldn't stand this, were it any closer to reality. He's in love with the ghost.

Cautiously, Emmanuel rolls from his stomach to his back, still with Nick’s arms on either side of his head. Static binds his hair to the pillow as he turns. Touching the side of Nick’s neck, the electricity sputters out of his skin, making Nick flinch. 

“Careful, there,” Nick leans down to kiss him. Emmanuel rakes his teeth against Nick’s lips, making sure he can feel it. Snaking one hand inside Nick’s chassis, Emmanuel holds on tight, though he knows he runs the risk of burns.

“I think I have an answer for you,” Emmanuel starts.

“Oh?” Nick rolls to the side, forcing Emmanuel to turn as well. He refuses to let go.

“About why I have to find Shaun.” He's not eloquent. But he's going to try. Because Nick is right, it's important, for his own sake, that he knows. “I never told you, why I was the one who went into that vault.”

“Because you were in the army. I know you weren't a soldier, El. But you were in the army. You earned that spot, for your family.”

“I made weapons. Nick.”

He wishes Nick would say something, but he doesn't.

His hands shake. “I designed weapons for the military. Not the finished product...but,” his head spins. “Anything they needed. Detonators, capacitors, high pressure rounds, lighter frames, how to fit bigger caliber into smaller pistols. Putting big death into small spaces. Crafting messy corpses for maximum fear.

“It was a game, Nick. I never...I never had to face a person I killed. The consequences of my actions…”

“You didn't kill those people, El.”

“Yes,” his voice goes monotone. “I did. And every day I step outside. I see the world that I built.”

“You didn't drop those bombs. Hell, even if you worked on the technology. You didn't push the button. You are not responsible.”

“Doesn't matter,” it's okay, if Nick can't understand. Because Emmanuel can. “I didn't stop it either.” He lets his eyes flutter closed. Even through his eyelids, he can see the glow of Nick, staring back at him. “So I'm going to go to find Shaun. Because I need to be responsible for something good, too. He's just a child. But he can grow into someone beautiful. And good. Like his mother.”

“You're beautiful too. And good.”

Fighting Nick is fruitless. But his words warm Emmanuel’s cheeks,

“But, we’ll find him, As long as you're sure,” Nick promises.

“I am.”


	4. Chapter 4

Piper taps Dogmeat on his nose. Once, twice, three times. Until the dog yips back in unabashed excitement. High pitched and joyful. Emmanuel is still uncomfortable with Dogmeat’s presence, having never had a dog himself. His hulking size can't be hidden by a sweet demeanor. Try as the beast does, he can't wrestle kindness back from Emmanuel, though he tries with heavy pants and wet eyes. 

The five of them: Emmanuel, Piper, MacCready, Nick, Dogmeat, leave the paper to head for Kellogg's old apartment in the city. The keys feel heavy in Emmanuel’s pocket, so he hands them off to MacCready instead. Frowning, MacCready accepts them, keeping them in his palm until they arrive. Without their cumbersome weight, Emmanuel feels better.

“Moment of truth,” Nick puts out his lit cigarette against the door before MacCready can get the key in the lock. It leaves a dark speck behind.

Breaking his heel with Piper, Dogmeat bounds forward into the apartment, sticking his nose in the nearest box before hurriedly moving on to the next target. His desire to impress his mistress obvious as he searches for clues.

Nick is more deliberate in his search, starting on the shelves too high for the dog to reach. He scans the items with his eyes first, then his hands, turning over liquor bottles, tattered books, a set of eyeglasses.

Bending down to Dogmeat’s height, Nick sees if the mouth of the beer bottle will be enough for the dog to gain Kellog’s scent. It isn't, so he resumes his search.

Piper takes a stack of papers off one shelf, plopping down on the couch to leaf through the yellowed documents. If they come up empty on the scent, maybe she can track Kellog with a turn of phrase. The leather of her coat scratches against the coarse upholstery as she shifts her weight from side to side absentmindedly. 

Emmanuel wrings his hands, not knowing what else to do. He starts walking the perimeter of the room, though he doubts very much he’ll notice something Nick cannot. Crouching down, he opens a box, the lid already slightly ajar. When he finds toy trucks inside, a teddy bear, two blue blankets, the sob catches in his throat. He pulls the blankets to his nose, but realizes he has no memory of what Shaun smells like.

\--

From a cigar they make it to a pile of bloody rags, from the rags, another cigar. Onward and onward across the expanse of the Commonwealth. They follow the cracked pavement, half-grown foliage breaking through the otherwise barren earth. But nothing grows very tall. Stunted. The radiation is in the soil, the water, the air.

Piper tries to keep the mood up, spinning theories that may as well be fairy tales. Emmanuel finds it out of character for her, the adorned way she speaks of events that will never come to pass, but he knows she is only speaking for his benefit. She speaks of finding Shaun. Emmanuel finally holding his nephew again. She speaks of the Institute, brought to its knees by a man from the last world.

At his side, Nick holds his hand, the soft one. Emmanuel feels limp inside it, empty. He could slip away so easily, run. And the word throbs inside his head. Run. Run. Run. You can't do this. Then Nick’s hand tightens, though his eyes do not move from Piper’s back.

Confident that Nick will guide his steps, Emmanuel watches his flamepoint eyes, always trained forward, unblinking, but alive. The way his hand twitches, that's alive too. Because of electricity. They're all electricity, only in different configurations.

When Piper runs out of stories to tell, she sings Dogmeat’s praises instead. Such a good boy, keeping them on track. How smart, to know just the right direction to take. And quiet too, not to alert hostiles to their position as they walk. And walk. And walk.

\--

Kellogg tells Emmanuel that Shaun is safe. He's always been safe. They always expected Emmanuel to come. A father’s love. Confusing? But Emmanuel assumes that Kellogg would have no way of knowing. He only knows that Emmanuel wailed inside the chamber, as Kellogg killed his sister, stole his nephew. He cried and clawed at the glass, until his nails broke, until his voice cracked, when the glass would not. Watching the light go out of Adaliz’s eyes. But what would he have done, had be broken free?

What can he do now? But stand in front of Kellogg, shout in his too-thin voice that he must have Shaun back. He must! Kellogg laughs at him.

“He thought you would come, but I tried to tell him you'd never live.”

Hitting his wrist, Kellogg disappears in the stealth field, his synth companions opening fire without hesitation. Emmanuel falls to the floor, covering his fragile neck with his hands, like he was taught. But what good does that do?

He can hear the others too. The gunshots from Piper and MacCready as they scramble into cover and Nick’s laser mixing with those of the gen 2s. Emmanuel stays frozen on the laminate. Move, move!

A weight falls at Emmanuel’s back, pinning him down before hoisting him up off ground. Nick screams his name first, then Piper follows with a string of curses. Breaking from his trance, Emmanuel realizes that Kellogg has him, held tightly in his arms, crushing his ribcage as he squeezes.

Inside Kellogg’s stealth field, Emmanuel’s companions can't see him. He's alone in this interstitial space, between being and not-being.

Kellogg’s lips are at his throat. “This is easier than I thought.”

Emmanuel can't beat him with strength. He can't. And struggling will get him nowhere. How long until the stealth field wears down? He's not sure. He hasn't been keeping track. Emmanuel can't wait. He can smell Kellogg all around him, cigar smoke, sweat, dirt, blood. He can feel the splintering of his ribs and the folding of his lungs. Pretty paper in beautiful patterns, all sharp corners.

His arms are pinned to his sides, but Emmanuel forces his wrist higher, grabbing at Kellogg’s stealthboy. Wrapping his hand around the bulky box, Emmanuel bites his fingers down, holds, and twists. The needle lodged in Kellogg’s arm rips through the skin, breaking the stealthboy loose. Their hands become slick with blood as Kellogg’s vein ruptures, soaking them both as the stealth field flickers out.

Kellogg shouts, grabbing at his arm out of instinct, before realizing his error. Emmanuel slips away, his eyes still cloudy from the static field. He runs towards the sound of bullets, to where he can hear his name from Nick’s vocal processor. 

It's not until the noise of violence stops that Emmanuel remembers to breathe. MacCready tells him he did fine. And Emmanuel almost hates him for lying.

He does the work of carving up Kellogg’s body. The corpse is full of augments, technology more sophisticated than Emmanuel has ever seen. But biomech wasn't his area before the War. He wasn't asked with any frequency to work with flesh.

Nick keeps asking him if he's okay, someone else can work the components out of Kellog’s carrion. Emmanuel snaps back that he has to carry his own weight. He can do this much, though Kellogg’s body is still warm to the touch, and Emmanuel swears, at least once, that it moves.

The room smells of copper and sugar.

He's fastidious with each mechanical part, wiping down the blood, working between the crevices. He tells himself, again, again, that each creature he has killed, will kill, is made of the same. The gen 2s? They're not. But is it different? Emmanuel isn't so very sure.

Because once they camp in a nearby Poseidon station, bundled up in sleeping bags stuffed with the down of long-gone geese, Emmanuel shifts his body closer to Nick’s, begs him in hushed tones to offer him something, anything. He’ll accept.

And as Nick strokes his cock behind one of the broken fuel pumps, Emmanuel with his back to the metal and Nick between his thighs, he wonders if there is anything as exquisite as this torture. That a man better with circuitry than he made someone as beautiful as Nick Valentine.

His nails still smell of blood.

\--

Dr. Amari tells them that first thing, tomorrow morning, she can install another man inside of Nick. Another killer, with another mound of misdeeds to his name. 

“Who was the first person you ever saw die?” Emmanuel asks, feeling particularly morbid.

If Nick could furrow his brow, Emmanuel is sure he would. But only half of his forehead creases. “A beat cop, before I made detective. She bled out, stab wounds to the stomach.”

Emmanuel nods, “There was an accident in one of the labs. Not mine. But...a fabricator malfunctioned. That's what they told us. We were being evacuated. And she...ran from one of the other labs, down the hall, her face was covered in this fluid. The guards couldn't restrain her. So they shot her in the back. I...still don't know what it was.”

Nick doesn't offer condolences, but pulls Emmanuel tight. “Nothing bad is going to happen tomorrow.”

Emmanuel stares into Nick’s chest, because it’s better than the water-stained ceiling above their heads. He waits a long time for Nick to turn off his eyes. Only then does Emmanuel try to relax, forcing his shoulders loose. Forcing his hands to unclench.

In the morning, Nick will ask if he needs breakfast. Emmanuel will tell him that he does not, but he’ll eat something in any case, because it will make Nick feel better.

\--

There is nothing to worry about, Amari says. But for a doctor, her bedside manner is terrible. Emmanuel can’t hold that against her. He asks her if she has done this before, while looking at an x-ray she has pinned to the light board on the wall. There is an object inside the chest cavity of the subject. A synth, of course, a gen 3.

Emmanuel puts his hand over the mirrored location on his own chest, feeling out each time he breathes. 

This time, instead of lying, Amari simply tells him there is no other way. But her hands are already busy, inserting Kellogg into Nick. Emmanuel watches as she performs the procedure, something nipping back and forth in Nick’s eyes. But not behind them, because there is no behind. Only surfaces. The shallows. 

“I care for you,” Emmanuel says, trying out the words in his mouth.

They make Nick smile. And that’s just lovely. “I care for you too, El.”

Not waiting to see or hear something he will be unable to forget, Emmanuel seats himself in the opposite lounger, tugging at the interior handle to bring the glass down over his head. 

\--

Emmanuel listens as Kellogg’s wife dies. As his daughter dies. And he feels nothing. No grief, no pity. He didn't know them. Doesn't know them. And something about Kellogg’s anguish is so exaggerated, Emmanuel almost laughs. Amari asks him if he is okay to continue? If the memories are too much for him to bear?

“No, I'm fine, let’s continue,” he keeps his voice monotone. “As you said, this is the only way forward.”

The synapse under his feet lights as he steps ahead. There's a ringing in his ears, near constant, almost musical.

He watches his sister die, through the eyes of her murderer. 

Then he watches Shaun smile at the same man. Nearly ten years old, with his mother's doe eyes, dark hair, and wide mouth. He smiles at Kellogg, saying he hopes to see him again soon! And leaves with the man in dark glasses. Just...blinking out of existence.

Waking, Emmanuel pounds his hands against the glass, forgetting where he is. The Memory Den, not the vault. Not the vault. But he strikes the glass again with his closed fist, because even though he knows where he is, he does not want to be here any longer.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://imperfectkreis.tumblr.com)
> 
> comments and kudos very much appreciated!


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